Old Flame by Ira Berkowitz Page A

such a major leap.”
    “I heard about what happened at Neon.” There was pride in his smile. “Even gimpy you really fucked them up.”
    “They pissed me off.”
    “A mistake they’ll not soon repeat,” he said.
    “Do you know anything about these guys, Dave?”
    “Like where do they hang out? There’s a motorcycle repair shop on Eleventh and Thirty-fifth. You might find them there. Want some company?”
    “Do I look like I need it?”
    He patted my cheek. “I guess not. But that brings another thought to mind.”
    “Which is?”
    “If you follow the dots, faint though they may be, Liam is connected to Reno, and connected to Ginny, who was married to this Ferris character. It’s a stretch, but could Ferris’s death be related to Reno’s scam? Barak hasn’t gotten to Reno yet, so he takes out anyone even remotely related, including their houseplants and pets.”
    “The thought had occurred to me.”
    “Hell of a family, the Doyles,” Dave said. “Talk about the fruit of the poisoned tree.”
    “Except for Ginny. So far, she seems to have escaped the family curse.”
    “So far,” he agreed.
    “But when you come right down to it,” I said, “screwed-up families are screwed up in their own uniquely screwed-up ways.”
    He smiled. “Aren’t we special?” he said.
    When I returned home, there was a message on my answering machine. Kenny Apple had set up a meeting with Barak for the next morning at Café Birobidzhan in Brighton Beach.
    I looked out the window. The rain had stopped and the clouds had magically disappeared, revealing a climbing moon in an empty sky.
    Brighton Beach, or Little Odessa, as the locals refer to it, is just up the road from Coney Island, and just about as stylish. I suspect the folks who developed the area had the seaside resort of Brighton, England, in mind. Maybe that’s how the neighborhood looked early on, but not anymore. Now all the signs are in Cyrillic, and it’s packed with about a jillion immigrants from every SSR in the former Soviet Union. And preying on them was the Russian mafia, an organization that—according to Kenny—Barak was affiliated with when it suited his purposes.
    The Café Birobidzhan was the only bright spot on a street that brought new meaning to the term “urban decay.” The block hadn’t seen a sanitation truck in years, the stores were tired and ramshackle, and overhead, the El cut through the neighborhood like a ribbon of scar tissue.
    It occurred to me that Danny Reno was holed up just a few miles away.
    Although the café hadn’t yet opened for business, the large sign over the door was fresh and new, and it sparkled with gaudy chase lights.
    “Do you have a negotiating plan in mind?” Kenny asked.
    “Nope.”
    He rubbed his chin.
    “Have you given any thought to what you’ll give in return for Reno’s, shall we say, safety?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    The chin rubbing took on more urgency.
    “Why are we here?”
    “You set it up.”
    “I know that. But what do you hope to accomplish?”
    “Make a new friend.”
    Kenny nodded. “I see,” he said. “Should be an interesting meeting.”
    “I’m looking forward to it.”
    Kenny smacked the door with the flat of his hand. A very large gentleman with thick features and a bad haircut, wearing about a pound of gold around his neck, appeared behind the glass.
    “We’re here to see Barak,” Kenny said. “Kenny Apple.”
    The thug unlocked the door, and we stepped into the reception area. I heard the sharp click of the door locking behind us. The walls were covered in gold-flocked red velvet. Very tasteful. Autographed celebrity photographs dotted the walls. There wasn’t one I recognized.
    He motioned for us to turn around and patted us down. Neither Kenny nor I was carrying. It seemed to please him.
    “Come!” he said, crooking a finger and motioning for us to follow.
    We walked through the restaurant, past tables with upturned chairs sitting on top, past the restrooms, and